Genesis (Extinction Book 1) (7 page)

Max Dumerick woke, trying to hold back a scream with a mouth that felt packed with stale bourbon-flavored cotton. It had been sixteen years, and still the cries of the damned in that small village in Mexico haunted him. Only in his dreams, the miserable cries were shrieks of agony. Nor did they fall silent after he put a bullet in their radiation-damaged brains.

Throwing the sheet back, he got up and moved to the window, hoping for the slightest of breezes to cool his nightmare-fevered flesh. Twilight had fallen. The lights in the Deira district, the largest commercial center of Dubai, were brilliant against the purple-blue evening that had fallen over it.

The Khor Dubai – though it looked more like a river to Max than a creek – in front of the Park Hyatt hotel, was filled with boats returning for the night. Ancient dhows loaded and unloaded their precious cargo while fishermen cleaned their decks and mended their nets at the end of another work day.

After a quick shower he opened the closet to dress for the night’s hunt. He’d been in Dubai for six months and had jack-squat to show for it. Six long, sweltering months of decadence, false smiles and propaganda. Finally, two nights ago, he’d gotten his first solid lead from a drunk expatriate from Britain in the Double Decker bar.

He groaned as he pulled out the plain white, ankle-length
Kandoora
the Emiratis favored, and grabbed a newer pair of leather flip-flops. On close inspection no one would believe he was Emirati. From a distance, on the other hand, the woven cotton would buy him a great deal of personal space as immigrants stepped to the other side of the street to pass him, determined not to take any chances.

He chose a frayed
Kandoora
in faded blue to carry with him. The white of the Emirati would serve him well as long as he ventured no further than the Souks, but after that he had learned the hard way that it would buy him nothing but silence.

The scars that the
Kandoora
didn’t hide were camouflaged by a thick beard. He stretched the taut, scarred flesh of his back and splashed his face with cold water. Hours had passed in that little village in Mexico, before the tingling sensation in his back morphed into full-blown pain.

Replaying the scene over and over again in his head brought him no closer to understanding. Whether it was the building that stood between him and the device, or the angle of the radiation blast – he’d never know. Mittie Kate and Ling had been spared, but somehow, enough radiation reached Max to penetrate the skin on his back.

After that, after the killing fields in Las Madres, it had become Max’s personal mission to find the bastard responsible for developing it.

His first few months in Dubai were an exercise in subcultures. He had known before coming that Dubai was not the fairytale wonderland promoted on television. The magical architecture of steel and glass had been built on the backs of slave-labor. They were a work force numbering in the millions, who had lived in horrid conditions while they worked off their debt.

Though they fared better with living conditions, the maids, nannies, and butlers who ran the homes of the
betters
, were equally shackled. Their passports held hostage, so they would be forced to work sixteen-hour days and without complaint, while the world turned a blind eye.

The only thing worse than being immigrant labor in Dubai, was being jobless and without a passport in Dubai. The only thing worse than that was being hauled off to debtor’s prison. For any worker unlucky enough to be recaptured, the latter was a guaranteed fate. The camps and holding of passports had supposedly been abolished back in 2023. Even if that was the case, fear still held immigrants hostage.

Nor were his problems getting leads limited to social class segregation. Ethnicity played an even greater role. The British expatriot was thrilled to live in Dubai. Wonderland, she called it. According to her, the Emirati and royal family were at the top of the food chain. Next were expats like her, from Britain and the U.S.

Below that was a twisted staircase of nationalities and their apparent worth as lower human beings. As hardened as Max was, talking to her had made him physically ill. He’d gotten soft, spent too much time around Mittie Kate and her crusades to save the downtrodden and vulnerable.

As morally repugnant as the woman had been, she’d finally let loose with some good information. Below the servant class of nationalities was a group of people even more degenerate. An Emirati that had openly fought against the abuse of the slave class.

One such Emirati had worked in the same financial mall as herself. She’d seen firsthand how he’d been stripped of his job, his wealth, and his home. Cast out to live amongst the very people Mohammed bin Hasan al Qassimi fought to protect.

He eyeballed his jeans and t-shirt with longing. Only in the malls, at the resorts and in bars like the Double Decker had he been able to wear them without standing out. With the white
sufra
tied around his head, he left the hotel room, praying that he would be out of the gulf region before he had to switch to a heavier wrap for winter.

A line of cabs waited in the circular drive of the hotel. A quick
‘salaam’
and his destination to the Souks market had him rolling between the river and golf course in no time. The last time he’d been in the United Arab Emirates, he had been in the military. Compared to twenty-five years before, the traffic congestion had eased considerably on the four-lane roadways. All because, he found out after arriving, an edict had been passed that only those in the higher income brackets could own cars.

In less than ten minutes, the cab pulled over and let him out at the curb across the street from the old plaza. Making sure not to tip so well that it made him memorable, he shut the door behind him and looked for the nearest crosswalk. The smallest infraction of UAE law would land him jail time and much more scrutiny of his identity than it could handle. He wasn’t taking any chances.

Unlike the modern glass and steel metropolis that surrounded the Souks, like the older residential neighborhoods and the al Fahidi Fort district, the narrow alleys were bordered by homes and businesses that were standing testaments to the old ways, built out of palm fronds, gypsum and coral stone. The buildings were topped with towers that held
barjeels
or wind-catchers – long, narrow slatted windows where warm air inside was forced out by air cooled by underground water. The first natural air conditioners.

As the bells rang high in the towers of mosques, Max ducked into an abandoned alley and waited in the dark. No matter how much he needed to blend in, he could not get to his knees at prayer hour and pretend to worship as they did.

In the darkness, cotton and wool cloth created a wave of sound as millions got to their knees, their voices creating a chorus rarely heard in the bustling Deira district as they went about their duty of faith. So many voices whispered as one that it created an almost physical vibration through the bazaar and along the cramped alleyways. When it had passed and life resumed its early evening ebb and flow, Max stood and stepped back to the street.

He collided with a woman dressed head-to-toe in a traditional black
abaya
. She pressed her body to him as he tried to step back. “Hal a’abaki?”

Her words –
Do you like it?
– told him what she was, even before she reached out to stroke his arm. In a region with such strict codes of conduct for its citizens, especially its women, her behavior, though subtle, was wantonly forward. Speaking to him in the dark, reaching out to touch his arm, she could only be a prostitute.

With a polite smile and shake of his head, he moved to step around her before the soft glow of street lanterns caught the hammered gold at her neck. During his time in the city, he had seen that intricate maze-like pattern before, but he couldn’t quite place it. Intent on his meeting with Al Qassimi, he shook it off and found the nearest crosswalk.

Every available space was taken with men selling their wares and earning their meager living. The narrow halls were cramped during the day, while flocks of tourists sought trinkets to take home and shoppers came to replenish their spices. Nightfall did little to ease the congestion.

A man stepped out of a connecting passageway and called out. “Hahmmed? Hahmmed the mattress maker?”

Men shining shoes, repairing clothing, and cooking rice repeated the call until a burly man with a heavy beard stood up. Leaving his small square of floor space, he threw a large woven satchel over his shoulder and answered the call. “Hahmmed is here! I am coming!”

In this way, customers called for and found the vender they needed, despite their temporary stations. Similar calls filled the halls as night began to press against the loosely woven fibers that created a roof over the alleys. Stepping over and around men plying their trade, Max followed the strong scents of saffron, cardamom and turmeric until he found the man he was looking for.

Men, most dressed in white and light blue ankle-length
Kandooras
, lined the narrow space as al Qassimi doled out lamb kabob after lamb kabob. It was crowded enough in the Souks. The last thing Max wanted was to ask this man questions while a line of Middle Eastern men stood waiting. Though most looked like working stiffs, grabbing a late snack before heading home, he didn’t want to risk being overheard by the wrong person.

The line moved faster than he expected, but as vendors wrapped up for the night, many took their place in line and waited for al Qassimi. Each time, Max stepped aside and waved them forward until at last, the alley and the way ahead stood empty.

Speaking a few pleasantries in Babbel, al Qassimi threw the lamb kabobs into a napkin and handed them over. Max took the offered food and filled the man’s palm with more money than the simple meal called for. “What story tells us about Adam and Eve?” Max asked in al Qassimi’s native tongue, watching the man’s hollowed cheeks and bruised eyes for any sign that Genesis might have a deeper meaning for him.

There was nothing. “Adam’s story is told throughout the Quran.”

“Surely you know your laws forbid me to touch the Quran.”

With this, the man looked up, surprised. “You are a Westerner? Your Arabic is good.”

“I understand you are cast down.”

With the mention of his shame, an Emirati cast down from the towers they rule from, al Qassimi’s tired smile faltered. His eyes narrowed and he snatched the food out of Max’s hand, returning his money. Without a word, he turned back to his small stand and began packing away his goods.

“I know where you live, Mohammed.” Max’s words were quiet, as non-threatening as he could make them, but al Qassimi’s back stiffened. He got the point. Making sure, Max added, “I know about your granddaughter, Lexmi. I know where she sleeps.”

Al Qassimi was shaking, the silver tools he used to earn his living fell from his hands, but he didn’t turn around. “I have done nothing to you.”

“I just have questions,” Max soothed. “Tell me what I want to hear, and you will never see me again. Lie to me, and I will force you to watch as I kill your family.”

Turning to look at Max, still shaking with fear and anger, al Qassimi growled. “What is to keep me from calling out, killing you where you stand?”

“Because I am not alone,” Max lied. “Killing me will stop nothing.”

Al Qassimi’s shoulders sank ever-so-slightly, but Max saw it. “What is it you seek?”

“Genesis.”

The confusion in al Qassimi’s eyes could not be faked. “It is the story of life, found both in the Quran and the Bible. Others have it as well. How can I give to you what is so easily found?”

Frustrated at finding yet another dead end, Max scrubbed a hand over his growing beard. Maybe Mittie Kate was right after all. Maybe there was no mastermind behind the project. “This Genesis does not give life, it takes it. The creator of it is no god.”

“Takes life?” Something flashed in al Qassimi’s faded eyes and he leaned against the wall.

“You know something?”

“An old friend of mine spoke as you do,” al Qassimi shook his head. “It made no sense, but he has paid a great price for his foolishness.”

“What did he say? Exactly,” Max asked, his hopes rising.

“He only spoke to me once about it. Before I knew what had happened, they had taken him away. He said ‘Genesis isn’t life, it is death and he is no god’. To speak that way, one of us. It was shameful.”

“Where can I find him?”

“You cannot. He was taken to Sonapor.”

“Sonapor? I thought they closed the camps after the human rights movement.”

“Closed.” al Qassimi started laughing. He laughed so hard, he had to squat down. “Where would you put millions whose passports have been taken? Where would you put millions who you would not have mar your image as the perfect city?”

Al Qassimi’s laughter faded, replaced by the pinched eyes and thin lips of one who has struggled against the abuse of slaves and failed. “The ones who are allowed out of their camps to work, must dress and act as if they are members of this city. To do differently would send them to debtors’ prison. It is a far worse fate than the camps, I assure you.”